


But he still looked hungry

by NotAnymore



Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 21:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5065978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAnymore/pseuds/NotAnymore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are three things that make a person feel whole: a hot shower, a good meal and a kind touch. Javert needs all three, but Valjean can only offer so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But he still looked hungry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evocates](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/gifts).



The first thing Valjean saw when he returned to the living room was the long black coat in the corridor outside, still hanging from the hook beside the font door, the bottom of it still crumpled where it reached the ground. Less reassuring, as he turned into the room, was the sight of Javert, who was still the chair where Valjean had left him, his shirt sodden grey where it was soaked with water and half-streaked with mud. His face was still pale. Valjean gritted his teeth and dropped the towel he was carrying onto the arm of the chair.

Javert's head barely turned, but his eyes flickered down to the towel and then back up to Valjean. He bared his teeth.

"You're running a hotel service now, I suppose."

Valjean forced himself to smile, gestured to the cheap furniture and thin rug. "Trust me, I wouldn't make much money. But you need a shower so bad that I don't think you'll be picky."

Javert's smile did not falter. He leaned back in the armchair and regarded Valjean. It was the most animated he'd been since Valjean had opened the door to him and guided him through the tangled garden to his outhouse. "A shower. In this place. I'd be better off finding a motel."

"You want fleas, be my guest. But you're already here and I'd-" he broke off. How much concern was it safe for Javert to see? "I think you'd feel better if you were clean, that's all."

Javert laughed out loud at that, but he reached down to pick up the towel. He rolled it in his palm, as though feeling the weight of it. "I'm sure I would. And then what?"

"And then," Valjean shrugged. _You're free to go_ , he wanted to say, but caught himself. "We figure things out."

Javert inclined his head. He stared at the towel for a moment, turning it over and over. And then he stood. At his full height, it might have been easy to miss the tremble in his hand. " _I_ will figure things out, Valjean," he replied. He took a step closer, eyes moving from Valjean's face to his shoulders to the doorframe behind him and back. Then back to Valjean. His eyes were too wide. "Where is it?"

Valjean exhaled. "This way." A part of him wanted to put his hand on Javert's elbow, but - almost certain that the gesture would not be welcome - he started down the corridor instead, silently willing Javert to follow.

Javert's footsteps were heavy behind him, deliberate enough that the sound was reassuring and terrifying in equal measure. After so many years, Javert's mere presence was large and imposing that he believed he'd developed a kind of sixth sense - a protective precognition. There was something nervous beneath his skin and a heaviness of breath that convinced him he could feel Javert's body at his back - though Javert was not, in truth, touching Valjean at all. The hairs on Valjean's arms prickled, and he did not turn his head. Was it only Javert, he wondered, who provoked this reaction in him? Or was he old enough and paranoid enough that he couldn't tolerate any kind of pursuit anymore?

 _This is not pursuit_ , he reminded himself firmly. And, as much to make the point as to reassure himself, he dropped back a pace to walk in step beside Javert. 

"Feeling nervous?" Javert glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. They stopped outside the bathroom door, and Valjean's hand hovered on the handle. Before he could turn it, Javert's hand shot down to close over his. 

Valjean's breath caught in his throat. Javert advanced, tightening his grip around Valjean's hand, stepping close enough that Valjean could breathe the murky damp that clung to him. Javert's other hand came up to his neck, a thumb hooking into the turtleneck collar of his sweater, rolling it down to expose his throat. 

"You've invited the monster into your own home," Javert's voice was rougher than Valjean had ever known it. In his filthy shirt and without his coat and hat, he was barely recognisable. The thumb that pulled down the thick wool at Valjean's throat twitched, as though Javert was restraining himself, but he did not touch. Valjean kept his eyes up, refusing to pull his gaze away from Javert's. 

"You're afraid," Javert's voice was low. "And so you should be. Every part of you is on the system. Your fingerprints, your dental records. All I have to do is say the word, and you're ruined."

"I know."

"You should turn me out."

"Would I be any safer if I did?"

"You should kill me, then. My gun's in my coat. You'll have plenty of time to get it while I'm-" he glanced at the closed door. Laughed. "Why not? Buy yourself a few more years."

Valjean yanked his hand out from under Javert's. The cool air hit him harder than he expected. "Shower's in there," he nodded at the door. "You've got a towel, you've got soap. I've left my spare bathrobe in there. I, uh, don't use shampoo, though, so-"

"I'll manage." Javert released his grip on Valjean's collar and Valjean's breath came a little more easily. He regarded Valjean, eyes a little calmer than they had been before.

"It must be strange, having me here. It must be-" he broke off, then after a moment picked up again. "I remember how it felt when you were elected mayor. I couldn't sleep for days. I said to my superior, 'it's finally happened: the sheep have elected a wolf to lead them'. He told me to keep quiet, and I did. For years, they told me to keep my head down, keep quiet. But I was right."

Valjean, who had not slept all that well in those days either, kept his mouth shut. Javert studied him a moment longer, then snorted a breath and disappeared into the bathroom. The door shut firmly behind him and the sturdy lock clicked home. 

Valjean could almost have laughed. The locks were probably the most expensive things in the outhouse, and here Javert had stepped right past them and Valjean had willingly let him through. There was Javert now, the creature that had haunted his steps, shedding clothes one by one onto his bathroom floor. Each garment hit the tiles with a wet thud, heavy with - with whatever had happened to Javert between their meeting at the sewers and the moment he found himself on Valjean's doorstep.

Whatever it was, Javert was uninjured by the encounter. But his spirit seemed worn through, and his eyes reminded Valjean of a cornered animal. And he was certainly as strong as ever - the faint dark indentations in Valjean's hand attested to that. He glanced down at his hand. Javert's grip had been firm enough, but it had not been painful. How strange that he should find Javert's touch anything other than repellant.

No, he thought, with a bitter twist to his mouth. At his age and with his background? Not strange at all. Just sad.

Behind the door he heard the slap of bare feet, and then finally - finally - the shower jets spurted into life. Valjean released a breath he had not realised he was holding. 

All around him, the pipes began to sing. While rooting around the bathroom for towels and other necessities, he'd taken the opportunity to twist the shower settings to pour out hot, soothing water on full blast. Hot water was a rare commodity, but scrubbing himself clean earlier that evening had taught him how tough it was to clean away the worst stink out of the river. And a memory from long ago reminded him of the virtue of hot, purifying water and good, honest soap.

His mind drifted to the small ivory envelope on his shabby mantelpiece. The explanation - or rather, non-explanation that he had already written and addressed to Cosette in the cold hours between delivering Marius to the hospital and the arrival of Javert. It was written too hastily and the details were too scant to contain the depths of his grief, but he had hoped it would serve as some small consolation while she waited for her Marius to recover. At least, he had thought, she would not be alone for too long. 

Would the letter be needed now? He had no idea. He was not sure if Javert had any idea. It was the kind of uncertainty that could eat away at a man's spirit, but he had lived over a decade of uncertainty. What was a few hours more?

He did not mean to pace, but every time he tried to find something to do in another part of the house, he found reason to come back to the bathroom door. He worried at a loose thread of his shirt, feeling it unravel too quickly in his hand. His feet were staccato on the floorboards, too anxious to keep still and too anxious to stray too far or step too loudly. The water was pumping merrily. He would have heard through the door if something had happened - a man of Javert's size did not go down quietly, after all. 

He was tempted to test the lock. More than once, he caught himself reaching for the door's handle before yanking his hand backwards in horror. 

_Have patience_ , he told himself, infuriated by his own impatience and that unyielding wooden door. _The man deserves his privacy. Wait and be calm._

He waited, but he was not calm. When had he unconsciously taken responsibility for Javert? He couldn't say. But there was no denying it: he had taken the man into his protection, whether he could admit the thing or not. And now Javert was behind a locked door and only God himself knew if he could be trusted to take care of himself.

Valjean sighed, pressing his palm to the door. The cracked paint dug into his palm, and the scratching almost-pain was almost reassuring. _Some things, only God can know,_ he reminded himself. _Offer this up to Him and have failth._

It was as hard as anything else he'd ever had to do, but with an effort, he took a step back from the door. His ear still ready for any sound of injury or distress. But it was not long before the shower shut off. And there - there was the wet slap of clean flesh against tile, and at last he could breathe again. The worst was over.

He retreated a little, half-embarrassed and half-guilty at his short vigil. Javert would want some space when he emerged from the bathroom. If he knew Valjean had hovered at the door like a thief - the thought might have amused him at one time. But on a night like this, who knew how he might react?

Finally, he settled on the kitchen. He set a kettle boiling, dug the last of the vegetables out of the cupboard and fired up the oven. He wasn't much of a cook, but he doubted Javert's standards were high. The only vegetables left were gnarled and bruised - Mr. Parsons at the corner store always slipped the extra, unappealing ones into his bag, knowing that he'd find someone who needed a meal and wouldn't care what it looked like. It was true enough: the city would always be hungry.

A cough at the doorway drew his attention up, and there was Javert: his skin scrubbed pink, his hair fluffed dry with the towel, Valjean's bathrobe a few inches too short. His legs were thinner than Valjean might have guessed. Not that Valjean would ever have guessed.

"Take a seat," Valjean waved a vague hand in the direction of the table. "I'm making stew."

Javert frowned. He crossed the room with quick, light steps, and in a moment he was at Valjean's shoulder, watching as the knife chunked through the carrots. "You don't need help with that?"

Valjean kept his eyes on the chopping board. "Not now. Maybe later. Take a seat."

"After I finished up in there, I was hoping for a shave." Javert didn't move. "I usually shave after a shower. I think most people do."

Valjean glanced at him over his shoulder. Javert's eyes were intent on the knife. "You want to use my razor, Javert?"

Javert's eyes flickered from the knife up to meet Valjean's. "Maybe later," he said. Then he laughed, turned, paced across the room, turned back, and made a helpless, abortive gesture. Valjean turned to face him, leaning back against the countertop. "If you want me to apologise for hiding the razors, I'm not gonna do it," he said. Then, after a moment. "I haven't forgotten what I said at the barricade. All this - the shower, the food - there's no ulterior motive. I know what you need to do. But if you need help, I will give you what I can. I ask for nothing in return."

Javert laughed. It was not quite the jackal's laugh that Valjean had heard from him earlier that night - harsh and desperate and furious. This laugh was soft, but not without bitterness. And, against Valjean's expectations, Javert sunk into one of the wooden seats at the kitchen table.

"Go ahead, then," Javert waved a hand. His eyes were fixed on the bare table. "Play nursemaid to the executioner. See where it gets you."

Valjean watched him for a moment, but he seemed to have sunk back into the strange lull that had come over him earlier.

"You're exhausted," he observed. "When did you last sleep?"

"When did anyone last sleep in this city?" Javert's voice was bitter. "It's the end of the world, Valjean. Have you looked out of a window lately? You and that boy were the only ones who made it out alive. For all the good it'll do you."

Valjean turned back to the carrots. "Leave the boy out of it, Javert. That's all I ask."

"He was there, wasn't he?"

"He's innocent. Let him be," the words were harsher than he would have liked. He tightened his grip on the knife. "I'm the one you want. Take me if you must, I'll come quietly. But leave the boy alone."

"It doesn't work that way. I'm not a girl at a department store counter - I can't give away free samples if I like the look of a customer. You can't trade in a favour for a friend. The law applies to that young man just as much as you."

Valjean sighed. He finished the carrots and reached for a stalk of celery. It was browning and curled in at the edges At this rate the soup wouldn't be ready until just before dawn. He felt the weariness through every inch of his body. "I'm an old man," he said. "I'm sick of running. Isn't that enough for you? What's one life that should have been lost? What does it hurt?"

"You make it sound so simple," Javert's voice was low and strained. "Making exceptions has always come so easily to you, hasn't it, Valjean? Wherever you look there's another soul in need, another wretch who deserves your charity. Look at yourself: you'll be in irons before the night's out, and you're chopping vegetables." 

Valjean flinched at the words, but did not reply. Behind him, he heard the scrape of the chair and Javert's slow tread across the floorboards.

"You don't believe you can placate me with a bowl of stew, surely." Javert's hand landed on his shoulder, heavy with intent. The touch seemed enough to burn through his clothes, and when that hand tightened and pulled him around, he allowed himself to be turned to face Javert. 

Javert's right hand remained tight on his shoulder, but when the left came up to cup his cheek, the touch was not rough. Valjean half-flinched and Javert exhaled a laugh so soft that Valjean could not hear but only feel it.

The touch was - not intoxicating, not dizzying, but so light and terrible that Valjean could barely make out the next thing Javert said. When he didn't reply, Javert spoke again, louder:

"Why do you think I came here tonight?"

"To arrest me." Valjean shut his eyes. Javert was too close, his touch too soft. His skin was damp from the shower and he still smelled faintly of soap, and he was here to arrest Valjean. "Or because you need help. Or both, perhaps."

Javert hummed thoughtfully, and the hand that held Valjean's shoulder squeezed a little. 

"Do you know, Valjean, I most likely know you better than anyone else in this city."

"Most likely."

"I made it my business to know everything that could be turned against you. I told myself: _he may have fooled me once, but I won't let it happen again_." Javert's leg brushed against his, light enough not to jolt his bad knee but deliberate enough that it was no accident. "I made it my business to know your weaknesses."

He did not try to pull himself free and Javert did not take his hands away. The hand on his shoulder kneaded gently enough that he could have wept. This was cruel, he thought. After so many years without human contact, surely this was asking too much of him.

Javert's voice was low now. It was not obvious that he was speaking to anyone else at all. "So now, of course- now that I finally have you at my mercy, I can't bring myself to-" another laugh, half angry and half despairing. "It's good, this is very good indeed. I have all the evidence, I have my criminal in my grasp, and there is nothing to be done about it."

"Javert, you're tired."

"I am more than tired - I'm shredded to the bones. The question is, what shall I do with you? I can't be trusted to decide. The law says you should be put away, but that's not right. And all you can do is fret about sleep and stew when your life is at stake. And all I can think about is-" he exhaled, shuddering. The hand at Valjean's jaw moved lower, the fingers moving ticklishly across nerves that had never known touch. It was agony. Valjean squeezed his eyes closed and tilted his head back, already knowing what Javert must want and already willing to let him have it. _Let it help somehow_ , was all he could pray for. All other thoughts drowned away to an overwhelmed hum.

Sure enough, Javert caught at his collar once again and rolled away the cloth. 

"Look at me," Javert's voice was hoarse but firm. When he opened his eyes, Javert's eyes flickered down to his throat and back up. "This is how I should have known, the first time. After you lifted the cart, you loosened your collar, and- how could I not have seen this?"

Javert's expression was hungry - so intent it should have been frightening. His eyes should have been enough to burn Valjean away. But his touch was still impossibly soft.

"I used to lie in bed and think about it," Javert said. "The idea of you tilting your head back to let someone put a needle to your throat. All the ways it made you vulnerable without you even knowing it."

"I was a kid," Valjean said, voice tight in his throat. "When you're that age, all you know is, it'll make you look tough."

"You never got it removed. After all these years. Your own skin is evidence against you, and you didn't get it fixed."

"I walk into the wrong tattoo place, I risk ending up on their computer - my name and address and what they cleaned up and where it was on my body. And if I get it really wrong - if I pick the kind of person who can put two and two together, then they've got something to blackmail me with." He shook his head. "Easier to stay low. Besides-" 

He broke off, breath unexpectedly choking hot in his throat. None of this was Javert's business. What was the point of keeping a lifetime of secrets just to spill them all? None of it meant anything to Javert. It was just the solution to the puzzle. All those years of pain and terror, all for nothing.

But then, at least someone would have heard it all. If he was going down anyway, why not purge himself?

Why not tell him? There was no one left to hear this. The guy who tattooed him was shot dead before he turned twenty-three. Back in those days he never thought he'd live long enough for his dumb mistakes to follow him this far. His chest felt tight. "Anyway, it's not as though anyone gets close enough to see it."

Javert exhaled again, he tugged the collar lower, revealing more untouched skin. "Anyone at all?"

Valjean shook his head. His lips were impossibly dry.

"Lord," Javert leaned close enough to breathe hot air against Valjean's throat, close enough that, if he looked, he could see the way Vajean's skin prickled at the slightest touch. "I'm a sick bastard," he muttered, close enough for Valjean to feel the words as clearly as he heard them.

He drew back, regarded that exposed patch of flesh, then looked back up at Valjean. "And what if that was my price?"

Valjean watched him carefully. "Your price?"

"What if I said you could buy the boy free, just by letting me touch you there?" Javert's voice was deathly calm, his grip still light. "I think you would, I think you'd let me-" his eyes were fixed again on Valjean's throat. 

Valjean's pulse skipped. Would he allow it? It was only a touch, after all. What difference could it make when Javert already held Valjean's past and future in the palm of his hand? He had already seen every part of Valjean that there was to see, after all? He was close enough to smell Valjean's sweat. What was the brush of a thumb against his pulse compared to that? What was a palm closing around a throat? Nothing more than the finishing of a sentence - the end of a thought.

He would have closed his eyes if he dared. He would have spoken if there was enough breath in his body. He swallowed convulsively. 

Javert watched, eyes drifting up from Valjean's throat to his mouth. "Stop worrying. What kind of a man do you take me for?" And then he shook his head. "But then - what kind of man have I proven myself to be? Speaking this way when I have no right to touch you at all."

He did not pull his hands free. Instead, he said. "You perplex me."

Valjean sighed. "The feeling is mutual, I promise you."

He reached up to touch Javert's cheek. How strange, he thought, that simply by reaching out and touching, he felt as though he had regained some equilibrium. Under his hand, Javert's jaw was wethered and sharp with stubble. Javert made to pull back, but Valjean reached out with his free hand to hold him in place by his shoulder. Javert trembled beneath his touch.

To be touched and to touch was a new and terrible thing, and to have it happen under such circumstances was no easy thing. But to take hold of the thing himself made it a little more bearable. And Javert's touch - though it shuddered across the memory of past cruelties was not harsh or truly unkind, not if Valjean was permitted to touch in return. He drew an unsteady breath.

Why not give up one more thing? What was his skin but the dying part of a man whose time was almost up? If he could make use of it - if Cosette might benefit somehow, how could he refuse? How could he not at least try? 

"If you wish," he said, voice shaking but eyes unflinching as he offered his throat. "You may."

He closed his eyes. He could not bear to watch Javert raise a hand. He could not watch as Javert dragged a thumb across his skin - he could imagine that hot, relentless gaze well enough. He held his breath, waiting for the connection, wondering if he would be able to bear it.

Instead: "No."

Valjean's eyes blinked open. "No?"

"Not tonight, at least." Javert shook his head. He reached up to pluck Valjean's hands from his shoulder and jaw, but he did not release them. "You're exhausted and so am I. And, what's more, I'm at my wits' end. Now's not the time."

Valjean straightened. "I agree," he said. Was that relief in his voice? It must have been, though he would have preferred not to show it. 

_This is not a reprieve_ , he reminded himself. _It's a stay of execution_. Javert's eyes would still on him after a night's sleep, his hands would still be large enough to close around a shoulder and his mind would still be at war with itself. For as long as Javert lived, perhaps, there would be no rest. 

But, he thought with some despair, he would take it over the alternative a thousand times. He could not have a man's death on his conscience. Which meant-

"Will you stay here?" The words were abrupt - more urgent than he would have preferred. But the sooner he knew, the sooner he could be certain the worst was over.

Javert bowed his head, unexpectedly shy. "If you have space for me."

"Not a lot," Valjean admitted. "But I can make room."

He looked down at their joined hands, confusion and relief warring within him. To his surprise, a part of him did not wish to let go. The two of them were swaying slightly on their feet.

Javert's long black coat remained untouched on the hook beside Valjean's front door. His muddy clothes were a dirty puddle in the bathroom. In the bedroom, Valjean pulled away the bathrobe and allowed Javert to pull the black turtleneck sweater over his head and off. One of them made a small, pained sound. Outside, where the streets were still stained with the horrors of the night, the first distant hints of light were breaking. It was almost dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the absence of leather and silk, but I tried to include touch-starved Valjean and Javert being fascinated by the tattoo. I'm not sure if I'd consider it a trick or a treat, but I hope it worked for you. Happy Halloween!


End file.
